ACE:Las Vegas Bad Boys(12)

Her words are so sincere, tumbling out of her mouth. She wants me to take charge, be in control of this moment. I can tell by the way her eyelids close ever so slightly, by the way she arches her back, falling into me, that she needs to let go. That she is carrying too much on those perfectly narrow shoulders of hers. That she needs a night where she can float away, forget whatever burdens she carries.

And I know I am the man to take her there.

“Shhh,” I say, steadying her. I take hold of the shoulder straps on her uniform, and slowly graze my fingers against her skin, knowing that the moment I pull off her clothes, see every bare inch of her skin, there will be no going back.

She whimpers, and the sound excites me. My cock is already stiff and I haven’t even seen her tits yet.

I tug down the straps, and her breasts fall, untethered. They are nice and round, the perfect size for my big hands. I want to suck those nipples until she is dripping wet, dripping down her leg. Until her thighs are slick with her own juice.

But first I am going to strip her down to nothing.

She steps out of her heels, and her height drops half a foot. I liked how we’ve been nearly eye to eye, but there’s something about her stature being this much smaller than mine that makes me feel like I can protect her more easily. Makes me want to wrap my arms around her and never let her go.

Which is an insane thought—women are nothing more than a one-off—except it feels different with Emmy. We haven’t even spoken beyond whiskey and sex—but I have a sense she needs someone like me.

And maybe that love at first sight bullshit isn’t such crap. Maybe Emmy Rose is the person I didn’t know I needed.

Fuck, I don’t need all that heavy rhetoric I don’t know shit about.

I sure as hell know I need her pussy.

Rolling the leotard past her waist, over her hips, I slide it to the floor. The fishnet stockings are in the way, but only momentarily. She sucks in her stomach, and I smile, knowing in some ways all women are alike.

But this woman has nothing to be insecure about. Her body is flawless. It’s as if she’s a porcelain doll. But as I glide my hands under the netting, a shiver runs over her body, reminding me that she’s real.

This is real.

And, fuck me, this woman is perfectly trimmed, like she knew this night would be coming. And she is just how I like a woman, not waxed clean like so many of those fake-tit Vegas girls — no, Emmy Rose is fully a woman.

She’s not pretending to be anything she isn’t.

And maybe that’s why she moans uninhibitedly when I grab her ass cheeks and shamelessly pull her to me. She isn’t pretending to be anything she’s not. She wants this—me—and her low rumble lets me know.

My hands run to her front, and I press a finger inside her opening, watching as her eyelids flutter, as she unconsciously licks her lips, as her hands move to the collar of my dress shirt.

She loosens my tie as I dip another finger in her, finding, with no surprise, that she is wet just like I knew she’d be.

“That feels so good.” She writhes seductively then says, “I like your tattoo.” She runs her finger over my collarbone, trailing her hand up my neck, tracing the inked skull, crossed with pistols instead of bones.

My fingers leave her pussy momentarily as I move her hand away. That tattoo is nothing but a graveyard of memories, and I don’t want to go to an abandoned past, not tonight, not with her.

No woman needs to hear about the shitty place I come from.

My hands go right back where they’re wanted, though, and I feel her pretty little pleasure ball ripe and round. My fingers massage it, but what I really want is to lick it.

Which is a goddamn fucking revelation. That isn’t my mode of operation. Usually I slam my cock in a dripping pussy and come fast and hard. But Emmy Rose is different.

“When’s the last time your clit was properly flicked?” I ask, slyly, a grin spreading across my lips as she pulls off my dress shirt.

She blushes; her eyes are open now, dancing with the dim light of the room.

“If you really want to know, Boss, I was late for my shift because of some overdue flicking.”

I pull away, slightly. Was she fucking a different guy after she turned me down? Because hell no. I’m Ace, owner of Spades. No woman turns me down for another man.

“You jealous?” she asks, sliding my belt out of my pants. It snaps before she tosses it aside.

She bites her lip, teasingly, as she unbuttons my pants. They fall to the floor and I step out of them, my cock fucking hard and ready—but not for playing games.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, my voice even, cool, even though she’s right: I am a fucking ball of jealous rage. But I don’t yell, I don’t fight. I didn’t work my way to the top by being a bully. I’m not like my father.